Coldest Month of the Year
by LickMyThermometer
Summary: Major character death. Wilson copes... or doesn't. Dark and eerie. Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

They find Wilson there in the morning, kneeling on the carpet, squeezing one of House's hands between both his own. He's crying. At least, that's what they think at first. Then they realize tears are pouring down Wilson's cheeks partly because he's failed to blink for god knows how long, is just sitting there staring vacantly, like a corpse.

But it's obvious to the paramedics that Wilson isn't the _real _corpse; the real corpse is lying on the couch with its eyes closed peacefully and an ipod still piping music into its dead ears.

They pull Wilson off. The man is obviously unbalanced, they think, and he needs help. It's too late for the other one, way too late. No pulse, no breathing, icy cold to the touch.

Wilson's been kneeling there for ten hours now. He's freezing too, they mutter to each other. His vitals are crap. He doesn't seem to understand what's going on around him. Somebody lies him down, they're moving him, he finally passes all the way out.

When he wakes up, he knows immediately by the smell and the beeping that he's in a hospital.

He opens his eyes slowly and looks around… almost as if he expects House to be sitting there watching him, the way he always is. The way he's _supposed _to be.

But no. It's just Cuddy. Her eyes are red and swollen.

Wilson knows he broke down sometime during the night. Maybe some of what he remembers is… "How-" He clears his throat, tries again. "How is he?"

Cuddy shakes her head, and they sit in silence for a while. "He knew what he was doing," she says at last. "The ME says he was calm and comfortable at the end. They figure time of death was around 10PM."

_Death. _Someone's said it. Wilson feels everything drain out of him all at once. He suddenly can't even summon the will to keep his eyes open. He hears Cuddy's chair shift, feels a hand on his shoulder. She whispers "I'm sorry," and leaves him alone.

The next time he wakes, he can hear House's voice ringing clear and sharp in his head: _Oh, give it a rest! Man up and get the hell out of bed._

"Okay," he whispers aloud. On the one hand he knows it's not _really _House he hears, but he's getting up anyway because how _pissed _would House be to know that he'd lost all his power already?

He moves to pull the covers back. His fingers are all cramped and stiff, but he's glad of it. As long as they won't uncurl, he can still feel House's hand between his. _Which means what?_ House is telling him ruthlessly. _Your friend's dead. Deal with it._

"I am. I know." Boy, did he ever. The sight of the meds laid out on the coffee table, the empty vials, bottles, syringe. The trusty Maker's Mark, nearly half gone. And just a hint of weed in the air. (_Why not? I had a joint lying around… couldn't take it with me._) And the body… Wilson knew even before he reached for the pulse. He felt the wrist, then moved to the neck and then the groin. As if somehow there could still be life there, hiding from him. _I always **knew** you wanted to get in my pants_.

"Stop," Wilson says, choking on the word. "Not now. I've just-... Don't tease me. Please."

House huffs inside him. _Fine_.

It's amazing how real, how vivid the voice is. Especially considering he's been hearing less and less of it lately.

"It was just a rough patch," he whispers to himself. He's been telling himself that a lot this winter. They'd get better. They'd be okay – they were _always _okay. Sure, House was a little withdrawn when he got back from rehab… but hey, give it time. Time for House to cool down and admit that the deal was a necessary evil, time for Wilson to convince himself that his best friend really _does _prefer him to a handful of pills, even if he'll never admit it…

They hadn't had a real conversation in weeks. What was the last thing House said to him? Was there some clue he should have noticed… or worse, some cry for help he unwittingly ignored? No, House had poked his head in yesterday, jubilant as always now that he had the answer, and announced: "Neurosyphilis. Yes – I am _that _good."

That hardly counted. What was the last _real _thing House said to him? _Are we going to play this game for the rest of your life, Jimmy? _House speaks up impatiently in his head. _When's the last time House drank a slurpee, what's the last thing he said about Cuddy's rack, when's-_"

Wilson bows his head and pleads: "Don't do this… I need you."

House, of course, being dead, can't help him.

So he closes his eyes and tries to bring up the image of his friend's face, not alight with mischief or drawn in pain… or closed-off the way it's been lately. He just wants to see, just for one second, that House can need him, can maybe even care about him a little. He needs to see the guard down. Just for a second.

He has it, finally. House in the lobby of the hospital, turning to him, for one moment hiding nothing. _The nausea's bad this time,_ is what he's saying.

Wilson's stomach twists. He grasps for something else, something better. _Maybe I don't want to push this til it breaks_. There – that's something. Not much, not when it calls to mind all the accusations that preceded it… but it's something.

_Oh, boy,_ House thinks at him. _Shut up already. Go look at the body, go cry over it if you need to, and then get on with your life_.

Wilson decides _not _to go look at the body. He's seen enough of it. A whole night's worth, in fact, sitting there letting House's fingers leech the warmth from his... refusing to notice how cold they were becoming. He went over there at eleven. Time of death was apparently ten. If he'd been just an hour earlier…

_Yeah? You would have what?_

All of a sudden the smell of Christmas Eve washes over him. The booze and vomit, House lying there stoned to high heaven and hardly breathing…

Wilson's stomach is churning and he feels very cold. Wallowing in the tragedy of having been _just _too late… that was one thing. But now he's being denied even that tiny, weak comfort. He can't even cry and say: if only I could do it over, if only I could have a second chance. Because he _did _have a second chance. This _was _his second chance, and he blew it. Again.

House needed help, he'd been at the end of his rope for so long now and all he would've needed was a simple- "No," Wilson whispers, trying to block out the horrifying truth. "It wasn't like that."

_Actually, it was,_ House admits to him quietly. _You know you've done better by me than anybody else in my life, ever… but yeah, this time you dropped the ball._

"I…"

_It's okay. Watching out for me should have been my job, not yours. Now go see the damn body, would you?_

"No." It was easier to pretend House was still with him when he didn't actually have to _see_…

_You need closure._

"I don't want closure." _Closure _meant shutting House out, forgetting him, getting on with life. Getting on with what, exactly? These last two months had been empty. Just the marking of time until the ice thawed and he could get his best friend back.

_You need it. Jimmy…_

"Don't say it – _don't _say goodbye" Wilson says out loud, fiercely.

_I had to do it. I'm sorry it has to be bad for you. _

Wilson can feel one of those moments unfolding, the ones that make him uncomfortable because much as he craves seeing House vulnerable, he never knows what to do with him then and always manages to hurt him somehow. But he's determined to get it right this time. He won't mock, he won't lie. He'll be as honest and caring as he knows how. "Please," he whispers. One more chance to do it right.

He can hear House fidgeting. _You did matter to me. You do. I want you to know that. _There's a pause after that, and Wilson wants to explode and demand to hear how the _fuck _House could do this to him if he mattered at all. But just in time he remembers that he's out of chances, that he promised to try and be understanding, and that if he says something harsh now he will probably never forgive himself for it.

The silence stretches on and Wilson wonders if that's the last thing he'll ever hear - or think he hears - from his best friend. But then House's voice plays one more time:

_Check the morphine box on top of my bookcase. I left you a goodbye._

"House…? Seriously?"

The first thing Wilson does when he leaves the hospital is fetch that box.

* * *

End of part 1. 

Originally I intended this to be the end, leaving everybody free to decide what Wilson finds in the box… if he even dares to open it.

But then I decided: to hell with that. The second half is a downer, and I'm posting it anyway. Expect it later today or tomorrow. And in the meantime, let me know what you think of part one!


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson gets the box home as fast as he can, telling himself to prepare for disappointment... but he doesn't believe it. He _knows _he's not wrong. House _has _left him a goodbye, a note that will soothe him, words to help him figure out the blank empty years that stretch ahead. 

Once he's home, Wilson opens the box without much fanfare, utterly certain there will be a letter in there for him...

But there's no letter. In fact the box is almost empty. House's plans last night apparently included most of his morphine, and all that's left is a single syringe, already filled.

Wilson picks it up, stares at it. "No," he whispers in disbelief. How could House _lie_ to him? Abandon him without a word? "You said..."

For the first time since the hospital, House's voice comes to him. _I said I would leave you a goodbye,_ he reminds. _Put it in your carotid and it should be enough._

It takes Wilson a minute to process that. "Are... are you serious?"

I'd have taken that last dose myself if I didn't think you'd want it.

House sounds a little offended now, a little injured. Wilson realizes he's probably the worst friend in the whole entire world. He is so insensitive he's managed to hurt a dead guy's feelings.

"No! No, of course I want it. I mean… Do you think..."

It's up to you. But either way, take off that stupid tie.

Wilson laughs, hard, as he slips the knot. "Anything you say, House." He feels drunk, careless. It's a wonderful feeling to have House ordering him around again, and he's not exactly sure he wants to give it up. He doesn't want to go back to being cold, and nauseated, and lonely. Hanging around listening to House tease is so much better.

He gets up and goes to the mirror, opening his collar.

Atta boy, Jimmy.

With the syringe at his neck, he hesitates a moment. "Is it..."

He's not sure what he's asking, but the benefit of House being in his head is he doesn't need to finish anything aloud. _No - it's easy, _House answers right away._ Was for me, anyway. The decision was easy, the drugs were easy, and I don't hurt anymore. You won't, either. And you'll have time to appreciate it before you go under._

The needle breaks his skin-

Wait!

Wilson stops, waits for the idea he probably should have thought of on his own.

No mistakes. If you want to be sure, grab a couple of drinks from the minibar and take some of my Vicodin. You're still carrying it, aren't you?

Wilson fishes the little amber bottle out of his pocket. He sees the name on the label, gets all misty... brings it to his lips for a kiss.

Euw. 

He's laughing as he pops the cap open and shakes a few pills into his hand. He washes them down with a miniature Jack Daniels and then looks at the pill bottle again.

Go ahead, House laughs wryly into his mind. _You know you want to._

So he does... or tries to. Dry-swallowing Vicodin is not nearly as easy as House makes it look. His hand goes to his mouth, he tosses his head back, he works his muscles in the familiar pattern, but it takes several tries and the pill rasps painfully against his throat. Finally he gets it down, and hears House chuckling his approval. "One more," Wilson says. "But first: a toast!" Tequila this time.

The second pill is easier. The third is easier than that. Still, he doesn't yet have House's deftness; apparently being a junkie takes some work...

He giggles aloud when House growls at him.

"Sorry," he says thickly, and then looks at the tiny empty liquor bottles that are starting to line up in front of him.

Beer before liquor, House admonishes. _Don't make yourself puke; this is one hangover you do NOT want to wake up with_. 

Wilson nods. It's time for the syringe. One more drink, one more pill for the road, and then he stumbles back over to the dresser where he's laid the precious needle. "I already feel better," he mumbles to nobody in particular. He realizes how wrong he was to be on House's case all these years; if this is the kind of comfort pills can bring it's no wonder House prefers them to people. "Nothing sucks anymore," he says, in wonder.

There's a reason they're called painkillers. 

Wilson laughs some more. He can't wait to get the shot over with so he can lie down and let his friend swim into sharper focus. That's all he wants right now.

He ties off his arm and flexes til he's sure he can see what he's doing. _Good move, _House agrees, _Forget the carotid; you're so wasted you'd probably just stab yourself in the eye._

He inserts the needle... then freezes when he realizes he is actually about to commit suicide. Suicide has always been off-limits to Wilson; the idea has come to him a few times in the past, but even on his very worst days he's always made himself rule it out immediately. "House?" he whispers, suddenly unsure. "Is it okay?"

Yeah, Jimmy, it's okay. House's voice is unusually gentle. Wilson's not sure he's ever heard House so caring before. _You did great, you've done everything you could. Everything you had to. You don't need to hang on anymore._

House has picked a great time to come through, Wilson thinks lazily. All those tiny disappointments over the years, those petty cruelties he tossed off every day without a second thought, all the times he should have offered some small meaningless snatch of reassurance and didn't... House is making up for it all in this moment. Wilson feels safe and comfortable in his care, and it doesn't cross his mind once to be afraid.

That's it, House soothes when the drug is all in. _Put the needle down and lie back. It's okay._

It _is _okay. Wilson's tired but happy. "House?" he whispers one more time.

"Shut up," House says in exasperation. Wilson can _hear _him now, louder and clearer than his own drunk mumbling. "I'm here and I'm not going to leave you. Stop worrying."

Wilson does.

"Enjoy it," House tells him, and he does that, too.

In the morning the maid sees the body and calls 9-1-1.

When the paramedics get there, Wilson looks a lot better than he did last time.

* * *

The End. 

Next story will be happier, I promise.

Leave me love (or hate… which, after killing both House and Wilson, I suppose I deserve). And thank you for your comments so far, although I did feel _terrible_ posting this after reading people's kinda hopeful-ish thoughts... Sorry!!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Shoutout to Office Space, from which I borrowed a depressing thought this chapter.

This is the totally last part of this depressing fic, I promise. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

To _Lisa.Cuddy _

From _Gregory.House_

Subject: suicide_

* * *

_I won't be coming in to work today, or any day from now on. I'm dead. 

Don't leap out of your chair and start calling 9-1-1. There's no point. I've got enough drugs here to euthanize half the hospital, and by the time you read this in the morning, I'll have been dead for hours and hours.

About my team: If you decide to get rid of them, there are letters of recommendation in my desk drawer. If you want to keep a Diagnostics department though, you should fire Cameron because she'll be too emotional to do her job, but Chase and Foreman should stay. Chase will have the better ideas – he thinks most like me – but he couldn't be in charge if his life depended on it and Foreman's actually not bad. Under the letters you'll find a few resumes. Hire one of them. I checked up on these people, interviewed them, and I like them because they'll be able to do the job _and_ they're in awe of me/us. Foreman and Chase will need the confidence booster, at least at first.

About my place: Take Steve somewhere where they don't put down rat poison, and let him go. You and Wilson can divvy up my stuff if you want it. I've destroyed all the diaries, photos, anything else you might find awkward. Like my massive sex toy collection.

About my funeral: My parents may have some preferences. I guess I would choose cremation if it were up to me, but considering I'll be dead it won't really matter. If they decide to bury me, I want to be buried with my cane, my first stethoscope (bottom drawer of my desk) and a full bottle of Vicodin in my pocket. No, I am not kidding. I'll feel better.

About people: People may ask you why I'm doing it. The answer is because, as you know, I am miserable and I am in pain. Every day gets a little worse than the one before it, which means – think about it – that every day is actually _the worst day of my life_. I am sick of waking up every morning knowing that today is going to be the worst day of my life. I've stuck it out as long as I could. You and Wilson and Stacy and my team and my poker guys have been bright spots (and thank you), but it's just not enough any more.

If Stacy shows up feeling guilty, make sure you tell her that none of this is her fault. Don't say_ I_ don't blame her, because that's not true and she'll know it, but see if you can get her not to blame herself. If my parents show up, say whatever you would normally say to grieving parents. Our parent/child relationship was never very personal; there's no need to try and change that now.

Keep an eye on Wilson. We haven't been talking much lately, and he hasn't shown up on my doorstep in almost a week. I know he just switched his antidepressant meds, which suggests what he's on wasn't doing it for him, and I don't know how the new ones are working yet. I'm not saying I expect him to break down and shoot up the hospital or anything, but he may drop out of sight for a while and hole up in his hotel room to wallow. Try and draw him out if you can. Make sure he's okay. I'm attaching a note to this email you can give him when he calms down. I didn't want to send it directly because he's actually anal enough to check his work email address at home, and I don't want this news to break until the morning.

So I think that's it. Thanks. Thanks for taking care of these loose ends for me, and for having my back with (most of) the risks I've taken around the hospital. I was lying when I said you'd be a bad mother – you've managed to mother me all this time and if you can manage me you can manage anything.

Wear something low-cut to the funeral so I can get one last goodbye peek at the twins. Tell them they made me smile and I regret not trying to kiss them when I had the chance.

-House

* * *

Wilson –

I'm dead. I know you'd rather hear a goodbye in person, but then you'd try and talk me out of it, and when that didn't work you'd try and stop me. I'd end up doing it anyway in the end, so we're skipping the middle steps and you just get an email. Sorry.

I'm sure we both wish things had gone differently lately. I'm okay with it now though. I'm sorry for my screw-ups, and I forgive you for yours. I want us to be okay.

You can remember the good stuff if you want, but don't think of me that often and don't get all gloomy and regretful when you do. I fully expect your life to be better without me in it. I don't want you ever to feel bad about that.

Good luck, have fun, and take care of yourself. You're the best best friend I could have imagined, and a far better one than I deserved.

-House

PS - Okay, I lied: you're not the _best_ best friend I could have imagined. You'd be better if you were female and beautiful. Or maybe if you were made out of cotton candy. But otherwise...


End file.
